Free
by DanishGirl
Summary: He hears nothing but his own heartbeat, the blood pumping through his veins as he just lets go of everything. Spoiler: 2x22


**Title: ** Free  
**Author: **DanishGirl  
**Pairing/Character: ** Cassidy "Beaver" Casablancas  
**Word Count: ** 1.200  
**Rating: ** PG-13  
**Summary: ** He hears nothing but his own heartbeat, the blood pumping through his veins as he just lets go of everything.  
**Spoilers: ** 2x22  
**Warnings: ** Character death  
**Disclaimer:** I am in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of Veronica Mars. No copyright infringement is intended.

_And_... Thanks to Pace for beta'ing it for me.

**FREE**

The air hits him in the face, almost as if it's trying to crumple him into a tiny ball. He hears nothing but his own heartbeat, the blood pumping through his veins as he just lets go of everything. He's not sure whether or not this is just his imagination, because either time has slowed down or else he never made that jump. How can it be possible that he can manage to think of so many things before he hits the ground, and when will he hit the ground? He tries to open his eyes, but unsuccessfully due to the wind pressing against his body. He tries to straighten out his arms, welcoming the desire of total freedom taking over his body. He feels stupid and can't help wondering if this is how birds feel when they are flying. He chuckles. 

He vaguely remembers his last conversation, yet for some reason he doesn't wish that it had turned out differently. You only get one chance in life, fail it and suffer the consequences. Simple as that.

_Beaver, don't!  
My name is Cassidy!  
Cassidy, don't?  
Why not? … That's what I thought._

He feels something wet on his blushed cheeks and tries to wipe it away with the back of his left hand – only, his hand is not moving. It feels like unwanted tears that have made it out through the corners of his eyes, yet the wet feeling on his cheeks are not familiar so he isn't completely sure if that's what it is. He has never cried before, at least not since he was ten years old or something like that. Crying is weakness and weakness means failure. At least that's what his dad once told him when he had cried about being on the little league team. He wants to scream out his frustrations, but helds it back. No one neither can nor will hear him anyway, so what is the point?

Suddenly the weird sensation of flying stops and he finally manages to open his eyes. He has to blink a few times for them to adjust to the darkness of the street. He's lying on his back on the wet ground, and starts to wonders when it rained. He doesn't remember the rain. He just stares up at the hovering and glistening moon many miles above him, waiting patiently for someone to come and help him. He notices two figures on the top of a roof, and assumes that it is Logan and Veronica. It looks like they are looking down; perhaps they are looking at him?

He continues to wait, never leaving the ground. The stars above him are twinkling, almost in a mocking manner, and he wishes that he could glue them to the ground; that would teach them! It feels like hours has gone by, and he is still waiting to be rescued. He finally decides to move, to sit up. It feels like a lightening just hit him square in the chest. He sits still for a few seconds before attempting to move again. He places his hands on the wet asphalt, which sends chills through his fingers and all the way up to the hair on his head. Goosebumps. He shivers a few times, before trying to move from the awkward position again. When he finally manages to stand he brushes the dirt of his pants with hasty hands, moving them so quickly that he, himself, isn't even sure if he succeeds or not. He doesn't bother to look if he got the dirt off; instead his attention turns to the ground where he watches a slim and rather pale looking body lying on the place he just vacated. He bends forward a tad, just enough for him to make out who the person on the ground is. He gasps when he realises that he knows the person. He starts to panic, because there's no logical explanation to why the body on the ground looks so much like his own, almost like a duplication – and then realization hits him, hard in the face just like the wind had done. He was dead, hence the reason for the pale and bruised body on the ground. He tries to calm himself, but is unsuccessful. He tries with the technique his dad would have used had he been faced with this kind of situation… he lets out a hoarse laugh and slaps himself on the right cheek. He calms down a tiny bit.

Death. He has done what he attempted, right? This had been his own decision; he had acted on his own free will. He steps further away from his own dead body. From himself.

He decides to wait for the ambulance to come and pick up his body. He knows it sounds weird, but he isn't that content on leaving it all alone. He bends down a little, just enough for him to reach the face. The tips of his fingers touch the skin ever so softly, sending small tingles through his entire ghostly body. He tries to wipe away some dirt on the forehead, wincing when he sees the smashed head and the blood which has already dried a bit. He growls when his fingers won't connect with the body. He stops his pathetic attempts and grins. How long has he been dead? A few minutes or maybe a few hours? He grins of his own stupidity, he has already forgotten that he is dead and therefore not able to connect with the human body. In the distance he hears some sirens, probably from an ambulance. He watches as two bodies walk closer, one of them talking in a cell and the other clinging to said person's arm while sobbing. He vaguely remembers them, but cannot seem to put names to their faces. The one with the cell has brownish hair... and is male. The other one, the one who's sobbing, has blonde hair… and is a female. He moves away a bit, looking curiously over their shoulders while they check the body.

The ambulance turns around the corner and drives towards them. He moves further away, now standing on the nearest corner under the light from the lamp. He squeezes his eyes together, trying to see more clearly. Then he stops trying. He faintly hears the paramedic calling the time of the death while a guy in police clothes who seems to have appeared out of nowhere questions the two persons. Wait, can a paramedic call the time of death? He's not sure. Suddenly this doesn't seem all that interesting, so he decides to leave. He looks one last time at the scenery in front of him, and lets his eyes linger at the dead body on the wet ground for a few seconds before turning his head to look down the dark alley.

While he walks down the murky road the noise from the ambulance fades away. He cannot remember where he is or let alone who he is. He lifts his arms out, stretching them as much as he can. He cannot remember his own name, yet he doesn't feel sad or worried. He just feels free.

_Finished._

**A/N:** Like it? Hate it? Review and let me know! Thanks!


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